


Where the River Meets the Sea

by queenlua



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Almyra (Fire Emblem), F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22485061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenlua/pseuds/queenlua
Summary: Hilda meets Claude’s parents.  They’re not who she suspects.Postgame, Verdant Wind.
Relationships: Hilda Valentine Goneril/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 53
Kudos: 228
Collections: Nagamas Gifts





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for yzderia for the 2019 Nagamas exchange.
> 
> Thanks to krad for the beta.

Like water off a wyvern’s back—that was what people said about trying to get a rise out of Kamyar el-Samandi.

By the time he was thirteen, hardly anyone remembered him as the crybaby prince who’d clung to his father’s knees. Those few who did remember—those few-dozen other slightly-less-royal princes who vied for the throne—did so wistfully. When Kamyar had been a child, all another prince had to do was mutter _half-breed_ or _chickenblood_ in his earshot, and the little brat would shout and swear and swing his fists—which offered perfect pretext to swing back, harder and faster, and send him crying back to his father’s side.

But as Kamyar grew tall and strong, he began to feign deafness; when he could not feign deafness, he would walk away—and days later, the provocateur would wind up half-delirious, vomiting, and curled up in some healer’s den.

“Sorcery?” Kamyar said, when someone accused him, once, laughing. “Wouldn’t be fair for me to be an ace archer _and_ a sorcerer, now, would it?”

(Nowadays only drunken fools at festivals bothered with the slurs.)

So what, some of the savvier princes thought, so you can’t insult Kamyar to his face anymore. There are other ways to discredit an heir.

But the only thing sharper than Kamyar’s arrows were his eyes, which missed nothing, and his mind, which kept a keen accounting of all he saw, as though writ in the Book of Names. One prince _swore_ that all he’d done was _think_ ill of Kamyar, and the next week a horrible scandal of his was dragged to light, from a box of letters no one should’ve known about, dropped in a place where they should not have been.

More impressive, perhaps, was the assassination attempt that Kamyar foiled all on his own, with an ingenious little trap, which ended with his own arrow striking the final blow from a quarter-mile away.

“If you _knew_ of this,” one of the palace-guards sputtered afterwards, while the rest of his patrol hauled the body away, “why didn’t you _tell_ us?”

Kamyar shrugged. “Didn’t seem worth bothering you guys.”

There were no further attempts after that. At least, none that Kamyar let get that far.

Then, and only then, did King Zamyan begin to bring his son close, after years of tactful neglect. Soon Kamyar became his shade at council-meetings, his hunting-companion, his second in all things, and woe to any who doubted him.

But Queen Elena, whose mind was sharper than even Kamyar’s arrows, remained distant as the moon. One cool evening, in one of her cryptic moods, she came to her son and warned: “Kamyar, someday there will be something you can’t forsee, and something you can’t avoid by scheming.”

Kamyar had said something—improper. He couldn’t remember it now; he only remembered what he’d felt: a white-hot fury, like he hadn’t felt since he’d first heard the word _half-breed_. Somehow, still, it wasn’t enough, never never _enough—_

They parted in fury. They made up later, in the sideways fashion that parents and children often do. No wrongs were admitted, no words exchanged. Elena came to Kamyar one night and braided his hair like she had when he was little, and Kamyar asked about the garden the queen had been tending, and over two cups of tea they chatted about anything, everything except that _something you can’t forsee, that something you can’t avoid._

Yet perhaps it was fortuitous that Kamyar received that warning from the queen a mere week before word of a dead uncle reached him, a uncle he hadn’t even known he had. A desperate entreaty came right after, begging for help, and thus Kamyar came to take a Fódlan name, and packed his things, and went to claim his birthright across the mountains as Claude von Riegan.

* * *

And once he crossed the mountains, he found himself drawn to Hilda—easily, naturally, like drops of water pooling together.

It was so nice, it was so easy, that Claude didn’t realize it was happening, until it had already _happened_. They were friends, then companions, then so steadfastly similar and like-minded that he could no more think of himself apart from Hilda than a drop of water could think of itself apart from the river into which it fell.

Maybe it had started at the academy, when they were still just kids, and didn’t know it. They were kids, and when Claude wasn’t rooting around in the archives (“I swear, Claude, you’re going to _turn_ into a dust bunny if you keep this up”), the two of them were lying around in the quad, skipping class, engineering little pranks to pull on Lorenz or Ignatz (because, they both agreed, they were by _far_ the easiest Deer to mess with).

Or maybe it had started during that first Battle of Garreg Mach, when he saw a strength in Hilda like a switch had flipped. Seeing the trail of broken bodies behind her as she marched relentless down the battlefield gave Claude a shudder and a thrill. “What was that all about?” he asked later, and she rolled her eyes and said “ _God_ , Claude,” as if he’d been gauche enough to ask her age.

But it had _probably_ started around the time he started sneaking into Hilda’s room at night.

It was after the war had broken out in earnest, when all the Deer had scattered back to their territories—Hilda to Goneril, Lorenz to Gloucester, Claude to Riegan, and so on. And it had started as a joke, sort of. Claude played it like a joke, clambering up the side of Castle Goneril’s northmost tower one night in his sticky-soled shoes, with a single red rose held firmly in his teeth. When he knocked on the highest window, and a bewildered nightgowned Hilda opened it to let him in, he bowed with a flourish and quoted some cheesy old love poem.

“You’re ridiculous,” Hilda said, laughing, taking the proferred rose. She set it on her bedside table and looked him over: hair bedraggled. “So why are you here?”

“Only to see thy lady’s shining face,” he purred—and when Hilda looked unconvinced, he added quickly, “and also I _might_ need a place to stay, if you don’t mind, Alliance Leader business, and maybe don’t tell everyone I was here?”

“That sounds more like it,” she said. “Dare I ask—” and then she paused, shaking her head. “No, the less you tell me, the better. There’s a couch in the boudoir, you can sleep there, and I’ll tell the servants to mind their own business.”

“I’ll be gone before morning, promise,” Claude said, with his biggest smile.

“You owe me, Mr. Leader Man.”

And not much happened that night, or the next time, even. But Hilda couldn’t ignore, and even Claude couldn’t hide, how dull his eyes looked as of late, how heavily he walked, and his first silvery-gray hair poking out from the rest. So one night, when they were both sitting on the edge of her bed and drinking tea, at goddess-only-knew what hour, Hilda ventured at last: “You look tired.”

Which wasn’t a question, but Claude heard the question anyway, and deflected: “Oh, you know, it’s just been busy ever since my grandpa passed. I never would’ve complained about homework at the academy, if I’d known how much more paperwork I’d be dealing with when I got out, there’s all these petitions and ledgers and—”

“Claude.”

He paused, and eyed Hilda carefully—how much to say? was worth saying? did he want her to know? and surprised himself with his answer: “The Alliance should’ve collapsed ten times over, by now. Half those times, I was able to head it off, but the other half? I got lucky. And I’m not really one to leave things to luck, so.”

Hilda nodded, like that had been the answer she was expecting.

“How is it here?” Claude asked, setting his tea down, leaning closer to Hilda. “How is it really?”

Hilda gave him the same look he’d given her, a moment ago, deciding how much to say. “You know what happens, when a few noble ladies get picked off in some assassinations, because their lords are all squabbling with each other?” She stared at Claude, and he could only shrug. “Well, if you’ve got a _certain_ overbearing brother, he loses it, and says you’re _absolutely not to leave Goneril under any circumstances_ , and triples the guard, and spends his days fortifying every wall and gate in the whole territory, just in case Gloucester banners flash in the distance.” She sighed. “And I get it, it’s probably the _right_ thing to do, but it’s just so _boring_. Wish something interesting would happen out here, you know?”

And as she said that last bit, she slid a hand up Claude’s leg, paused at his hip, raised her eyebrows ever so slightly, and _oh_. That _would_ be interesting, wouldn’t it? And why not?

So maybe it started with that, thinking with the wrong head and all that, and it _was_ a fun night, tremendously so—but Claude suspected it _really_ started the morning after.

Hilda seemed determined to stay in bed as long as possible—while Claude stepped out of bed just seconds after his eyes opened, Hilda threw a pillow over her head to block out the sun. Claude slunk off to Hilda’s boudoir, dressed himself, threw water on his face, combed and rebraided his hair—Hilda at last turned over and tossed the pillow aside, grumbling something about the sunlight. While Claude was at last pulling on his boots, and Hilda was idly picking at one of her fingernails, she called across the room: “When you’re meeting with Myrne Ordelia, you really ought to offer her some crescent-moon tea, if you can. It’s her favorite.”

“Sorry, meeting with who now?”

“Don’t play dumb, Claude,” Hilda said, not bothering to look up from her fingernails. “You keep dropping in on days the winds between Ordelia and Goneril are fair. And Ordelia is _clearly_ the swing vote in the roundtable meetings lately, so you need them to back you. But Riegan can’t be showing undue favoritism right now, because then House Edmund will double down and press for funds your house doesn’t have, so you keep passing through _here_ all sneaky-like, so if anyone starts to suspect anything they’ll suspect something _else_. And you’re smart enough to figure that, even though she’s pretty stuffy, what Myrne wants, she gets, so you’re going straight to her with, like, bribes and flattery and secret promises or whatever.”

Claude had stopped lacing his boot, staring at Hilda. No use denying it, he supposed: “You’ve found me out. So who told you?”

“No one.” When Claude kept staring, she looked up from her fingernails at last: “No one, seriously. Claude, it’s so boring here that I even follow _politics_ now. It’s _horrible_.”

Maybe it was horrible, but she was smiling, too, and seeing her coy little smile, Claude felt the overwhelming urge to kiss her.

He didn’t, of course, at least not right then; he had to be at Ordelia by noon. But thereafter, he found himself drawn to Goneril even on days when the wind _wasn’t_ fair, drawn to the faint nightflower scent of her room, drawn to a mind as sharp and canny as his own.

* * *

And being with Hilda was so nice, it was so easy, that Claude let so many things slide, like water off a wyvern’s back.

Like when one of the servants came to attend them, early one morning. Claude and Hilda were only barely awake, still tangled in a mess of sheets and pillows and covers. Hilda threw pillow over her head, in a vain effort to block out the sun. Claude rubbed his eyes and sat up to see—Cyril.

No, not Cyril. But someone who looked so much like him. Like Cyril, except younger, and with dark circles under his eyes. He worked quietly and quickly, dusting and polishing every surface in the room down to a sheen, lifting up every little knick-knack and bit of pottery on Hilda’s desk.

“Hey there,” Claude called.

The boy startled and dropped the bowl he’d been holding. It shattered into two dozen fat clay pieces.

“Sorry. My bad. Didn’t mean to scare you.” Claude hefted himself out of bed—and the boy flinched, staring wide at Claude.

Weird. Claude knelt down and began to pick up the pieces, but that _really_ set the boy off. Suddenly he scrambled to collect the pieces, shouting, ”No, I do, I do!”

“I can help,” Claude protested, but the boy snatched the pieces he’d been holding straight out of his hand.

“Oh, Claude, let him do it,” Hilda called, sitting up and blinking away the sun. “He’s better at it than you’ll be.”

So Claude watched, as the kid picked up every last piece, and swept the floor, and wiped down all the windows. He watched how the kid’s ribs poked out a bit, visible even under his clothes, when he stood up straight, and he watched the little limp he had on his left foot. He watched as he set out some tea, and scampered out the door at last.

Claude must’ve been staring at that door for a while, because Hilda finally asked: “What?”

Claude shook himself. “Nothing, just—that kid looked a lot like Cyril, don’t you think?”

“Did he? I can’t really tell them apart.”

Wow. Claude sucked in a quick breath, then looked sideways at Hilda—she was in the middle of brushing her hair; she hadn’t noticed.

“He looked a little rough, didn’t he?” Claude tried. “Do you think he’s alright?”

“I mean, he’s an Almyran. That’s kind of their thing.”

Claude watched Hilda sideways, in silence, for a few moments more, while she dabbed some powder on her face. And then he smiled, and crossed the room to ruffle her hair (“gosh, Claude, I _just_ brushed that, jeez”), and picked up one of the teacups on her desk, because he was no stranger to letting words roll off of him. Like water off a wyvern’s back.

* * *

When Claude finally returned to visit his home in Almyra, the first thing his mother said was: “You shouldn’t have come.”

“It’s been six _years_ ,” Claude said, bewildered. He had understood why she wanted him to keep a low profile while he was at the monastery, and why it would be dangerous for him to jaunt back home during the war, but surely six years and a shattered empire was distance enough between them?

Queen Elena shook her head: _no_. If Claude was a wyvern, deft and imperturbable, his mother was more like a lioness, coiled and tense and always, always watching.

“A disappeared prince ought stay disappeared,” she told him. “Lest a cousin notice that the prince seems to be lurking in some shadow, where he _ought_ to be squashed out. Lest another prince trace you back to Leicester and send more assassins after you there. Lest you invite undue Almyran interest in Fódlan, lest someone learn that Claude von Riegan is really Kamyar—”

“Mom, mom, I get it, okay? Look, I got all the way to your drawing room without any of your guards noticing, didn’t I?”

Elena frowned. That much _was_ true.

Claude smiled. “I’ll be just as quiet on the way out, promise.”

Elena’s shoulders relaxed, just a little, but her gaze was still sharp. “Kamyar, what are you doing here?”

“Visiting. It’s not a crime to say hi to my own mom, is it?”

Elena rolled her eyes. “Kamyar, what are you really doing here?”

Claude laughed. “Well, you can probably guess a little of it, right? Even Miss Ignorant As Possible can’t have missed the news of what’s been happening in Fódlan.”

Elena regarded Claude coolly. The less she heard of her homeland, the better, in her view—but she gave a stiff nod for Claude to continue.

“There’s a new church that’s ruling the continent. An old professor of mine’s at the head of it, actually, sort of a wild story there, actually—” Claude read his mom’s annoyed glance and hurried on “—right, and also, there’s a man in Leicester who’ll do well handling southeastern affairs. I’ve got some things to tie up, for sure, and some people I owe favors to, but after that? Fódlan won’t need me much longer.” Claude smiled his real smile: “I can come home.”

He had expected his mom to look a little excited. She had voiced the most vehement objections to his leaving in the first place; surely she _wanted_ him back? But instead her eyes narrowed into slits: “And what else?”

He gave a helpless _you got me_ shrug: “I have a friend I’d like to bring along for a visit.”

“A friend?”

“Yeah. A lady from Goneril, actually. We fought together during the war.”

Elena sucked in a breath at the word _Goneril_. “Claude, If this is yet _another_ gambit to get some Fódlan general to make friends with Nader, and borrow our army yet again—”

“No, no, not like that—we’re at peace now, remember? It’s a friend. She’d like to meet you. That’s all.”

Elena looked even more discomfited than before. “A friend?” she pressed, and Claude heard the question in her voice, and gods, seriously—

“Just a friend,” Claude repeated.

Elena _hmph_ ed. Then she reached and snapped a bangle off her wrist, thrusting it into Claude’s hand: “Here. Don’t bring her unless she’s wearing this.”

“Mom, she’s just curious, seriously, it’s not like that—”

“Isn’t it?” Elena asked, in a voice that brooked no argument, and closed Claude’s hand around the bangle. “Tread carefully, Kamyar.”


	2. Chapter 2

A few nights later, Claude flew to Castle Goneril.

“You’re late,” Hilda groused.

It was all part of their little routine, by now. Claude feigned secrecy by only ever visiting at night; the guards feigned ignorance; by morning the pair of them would be gone and vanished on some little trip or another, and maybe the palace muttered about Lord Goneril’s daughter being lazy or wandering off all the time, but von Riegan’s name was tactfully kept out of it.

(It helped, Claude suspected, that he’d become such good friends with Holst Goneril since the war—no one particularly wanted to cast aspersions on any of their Lord’s drinking companions.)

“Worth waiting for, I hope,” he said, crossing the room and flopping backwards onto Hilda’s bed. 

“Claude, seriously, at least take your boots off first—”

“ _Just_ the boots?” he teased. She jumped into bed beside him and started untying one of the boots. He kicked off the other, and then she crawled on top of him to kiss him—and gods, it felt so nice that he laughed, and then she laughed, and he lifted his head to kiss her neck, and she laughed harder and pushed him back against the pillow. She slid her knees forward around his hips, and he felt something in his pocket poke uncomfortably against his hip—

“Ah! Before I forget,” Claude said, scooting backwards. “I brought you something.”

He pulled a purple pouch from his pocket. Hilda made a little _ooh_ sound, and untied the ribbon at once. Out fell a shock of gold and turquoise: a bangle, polished so bright it gleamed even in the dimness of the room.

Hilda picked it up, turning it over in her hands once, then twice, brow furrowed.

“I thought maybe you’d like a bit of inspiration,” Claude said. “For that jewelry you make.”

She held it as though she were afraid of breaking it. She traced the bezeling around the stones with her fingers, squinting. “This is Almyran?”

Claude gave a coy shrug: _What do you think?_

“It’s really...” She struggled for the right word, and faltered. “It’s really nice, Claude.”

“Glad you like it. Now, let’s set this someplace safe—” he plucked the bangle from her hand and placed it on the nightstand “—and, sorry, I interrupted you, what were we doing?”

He cupped a hand around her face. She giggled, and let him pull her into a kiss. Then after a minute she was tugging at his shirt, and pushing him back onto the bed, and unfastening his belt, and pretty soon after that Claude was too distracted to spare another thought for the bangle.

* * *

The next morning Claude told her: pack your bags, we’ll be away for a while, pack something nice, pack for warm weather, and hey, you still want to meet my parents, right?

And it wasn’t like they _hadn’t_ been on little adventures before. Even during the war, anytime Claude could get away for a few days, he’d drop in and sweep her away, to the coast, or some cute mountain cabin, or whatever. People muttered about young Lady Goneril’s daughter being a flake, sure, but they would’ve muttered that _anyway_ , and at least this way she was having a good time.

And it wasn’t like she _didn’t_ want to meet his parents. She did. She was curious, so curious, what sort of people raised someone like Claude?

But then, when she’d gotten all packed, Claude asked, “Hey, where’s that bracelet I gave you?”

And she said, “It doesn’t really go with this outfit,” and he said “of course it does,” and she couldn’t really argue more without being rude, it was a nice bracelet, and a gift after all—even though its delicate craftsmanship, and the way Claude looked at it, told her it was something more.

So she put it on, and Claude hailed his wyvern, and she could hardly be surprised when they winged their way east, could she? They slipped into the clouds to steal their way over the Throat—she couldn’t feign ignorance much longer at all, could she?

* * *

Hilda had been quiet ever since takeoff. Which wasn’t strange on its own—chatting on wyvernback was difficult, entailing more mad gestures than actual conversation, because of the wind roaring in your ears the whole while. And at the heights they were flying, folks focused on bundling up and staying warm rather than bantering.

But Hilda had never let the cold stop her from chattering on before. Claude had always marveled how, on these little trips, every little sight seemed _magical_ to her—she’d tap his shoulder and say, wow, those lakes really do look like mirrors, let’s circle over them again, or she’d ask to fly close over the ocean because she loved the salty smell.

So far today, they’d ascended the Throat, passed through the cloudline, and flown over the whole of the Kumini Basin, and yet Hilda hadn’t said a peep. It was spring, on this side of the mountains; bright rings of flowers bloomed in clusters among the brownish windswept grass, like little gems.

“You alright back there?” Claude asked at last.

“Just hungry.”

“Oh, well, we can fix that. Kurosh!” he cried, slapping his wyvern’s shoulder, and the wyvern dipped his head in answer, and all three of them spiraled swiftly down to a little waystation below.

Hilda leapt off of Kurosh with practiced deftness, dusting herself off and looking around. For someplace clearly in the middle of nowhere—it was just dead grass and scrubby little flowers as far as the eye could see—this little spot was surprisingly-well maintained. A great bronze statue of an eagle, over twice her height, loomed on one side of a thin dirt road. On the other side, there was a sod-roofed travelers’ lodging-house, and a little trading-post with some kitschy amulets on display, and a lean-to of a food stand, though whatever was cooking there smelled a little pungent for her tastes.

Hilda turned back around—Claude was muttering something in front of the eagle statue, eyes closed, hands clasped, and then he flipped a single silver coin into the brass vase beside it.

“What was that about?”

Claude grinned. “Can’t hurt to get a little of the traveler-god’s favor, right?” He gestured around him: “This place is a rest stop for folks on their way to visit the tomb of Invarsi, just a few days’ travel south of here by foot. Staying the night is free, you just offer what you can. I never understood why Fódlan didn’t have places like this. They’re all over Almyra.”

Hilda stared dubiously at the lodging-house, which looked like it’d been heaped into existence with slurry of wood and mud, and tilted awkwardly to one side. “Sure hope it doesn’t like, collapse on somebody."

“They’re sturdier than they look,” Claude said, laughing. “Come on. Let’s go eat.”

They walked to the little lean-to, where a tall lady in bright robes stood tending to a boiling pot almost as tall as she was. Claude tried to teach Hilda how to order a bowl of it, _manyeh fesenjan mikhaam lotfan_ , but Hilda scrunched up her nose: “Can’t you do it? I’ll just sound stupid.”

So Claude ordered two bowls, and the lady smiled broadly—she had dimples—and they sat at one of the little wooden tables out front.

Claude dug in right away. Hilda stirred her stew this way, then that, eyeing it skeptically—there was _something_ in the scent that didn’t make sense, some sort of weird spice that made the thing smell a little like burning tar.

And there were bigger things that didn’t make sense either: “So your parents,” she said at last.

Claude swallowed a mouthful of stew before answering. “Yes?”

“Your mom was _someone_ from Riegan. There’s a story about a duchess’s daughter who disappeared without a trace, and everyone thought she drowned—it’s her, I’m guessing?”

“That sounds right.”

“Then maybe your dad’s a trader,” she ventured. “Selling wares from here to Leicester and to the rest of Fódlan. She met him when he was passing through Riegan, and, you know, love at first sight or something.”

“Nope.”

Hilda frowned. “An ambassador, maybe?” she tried. “Though I don’t think Leicester exactly has diplomatic ties with Almyra, so, it’d be a little weird...”

“Closer,” Claude said, “but still not quite right.”

“Okay, I give up. What is he?”

“No, keep guessing. It’s more fun for me.”

Hilda rolled her eyes. “The circus.”

“Colder.”

He waited for another guess, but Hilda kept silent. He eyed the stew in front of her, still untouched: “Didn’t you say you were hungry?”

“This stew seems a little heavy,” she said, pushing the bowl away. “Did you pack any snacks?”

He had, though how in the gods’ name someone could find fault with fesenjan was bewildering to him; every ingredient in it was perfectly tasty. But, sure. She was traveling; she didn’t ride wyvernback much; maybe her stomach was just a bit iffy at the moment.

He pulled some dried meat and flatbread from a satchel; Hilda ate it eagerly, and they were back in the air again before anyone else ventured upon the little outpost.

* * *

The palace came into view, and that was only the first surprise.

Hilda recognized the palace, and the city’s skyline, from some sketches her governess had forced her to study as a child. Much as Goneril disdained the Almyrans, they did have to know more than a few things about them—they shared a border with them, after all. So Hilda knew what their capital looked like, knew the structure of their armies, knew a few of their gods and so on.

So she saw the skyline, and knew they were in Samandi, and she thought: okay. She’d been close when she guessed ambassador. Maybe Claude’s father was a member of the palace guard? Or captain of the guard, even—that would be fittingly romantic, she thought.

But if that were the case, then surely they’d be descending on one of the little homes around the palace, right? Or maybe slipping into a side entrance? Yet ever since they’d first descended on the city, Claude’s wyvern had been flying straight as an arrow for the palace’s great vaulted front entrance.

Claude pulled a typically flashy entrance—right when they were almost there, he gave Kurosh’s reins a little tug, and the wyvern gave a great cry, flapping its wings in some ornate pattern before finally landing.

A semicircle of guards rushed around them; Claude hopped off to greet them. Then one of them gasped: “Shahzada Kamyar,” she cried, and fell to her knees. The others swiftly followed suit.

_Wow._

“Natasha!” Claude walked toward the first guard, and said something in Almyran that Hilda couldn’t follow—he reached out a hand to help the guard stand back up, and they laughed over some shared joke, and Hilda wound up standing awkwardly by Kurosh and shuffling her feet for _quite_ a while, while Claude went around chatting and embracing every Tom, Dick and Jane in the royal guard. Must’ve been a lot to catch up on.

Then, finally, Claude turned back to Hilda, with a smile larger than any she’d ever seen: “You packed something nice to wear, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Perfect. If we hurry we can make it to tonight’s royal banquet.”

“And your parents...?”

“Will be there, of course. They’re the king and queen, after all.”

* * *

Hilda was going to throttle him. She was absolutely going to throttle him, if she survived this, which she _would_ , she was _very_ good at being charming on demand, but a royal banquet with a pair of _foreign sovereigns_ isn’t something you just spring on someone with two hours’ notice.

A flurry of attendants rushed to escort them, and within minutes Hilda found herself in a surprisingly respectable powder-room of sorts—the gold-and-turquoise tiling everywhere was a bit gaudy for her tastes, but the mirror was huge the lighting was bright. She unpacked her makeup in a hurry—she’d brought some, of course, because she wanted to look nice for Claude’s parents, but she sighed at its inadequacy for a royal meeting. She really should’ve brought the sparkly eyeshadow, the nice perfume, some hair-clips...

Just as she was daubing the last bit of kohl onto her eyelashes, there was a knock on the door. “Who is it?” Hilda shouted, and when Claude called back she nearly poked herself in the eye: “You,” she hissed. “Stay there. Not a foot in this room until I’m done!”

“As you wish,” came the reply, insufferably singsong.

So she finished the makeup, and threw on her dress, and fixed up her hair—and when she finally opened the door, Claude actually _gasped_. Like, mouth-hanging-open-for-a-second and everything—Hilda hadn’t known people did that in real life, least of all Claude. "Gods," he whispered, "you look wonderful."

And, okay, it was a little hard to stay mad at him, when he looked at her the way he was looking at her now.

Hilda proffered her arm: “Lead the way, Mister Prince Man.”

The banquet hall was also gold and turquoise—but though those colors had been merely gaudy in the powder room, here, they were _dizzying_. The floor was tiled with them, and gilt tapestries glittered overhead with the light of so many lamps. A few tables in the center were piled high with roasted meats and bright red-and-yellow vegetables she didn’t recognize, all on little skewers, and people milled about all over the room.

Hilda scanned the crowd, instinctively seeking some familiar face, though of course there was none. The queen was easy enough to spot, at least: she was the palest woman in the room, and possibly the tallest woman, too, looming in a corner like a jeweled idol. Even though she was deep in some conversation with a gaggle of young warrior-looking types, there was a solid distance between herself and them, almost solid enough to touch. It was the way she held herself, very carefully apart, her chin tilted every-so-slightly aloft—Hilda knew the type.

But before Hilda could ask for an introduction, Claude grabbed her hand and led her to the other corner of the room, where a huddle of grizzled old men were laughing uproariously over some joke or another. The tallest among them saw them coming, and his eyes brightened: “Kamyar!” he shouted, and pushed through the crowd, rushing to embrace Claude.

Obviously his father, Hilda thought, watching as they carried on in Almyran. Yet she could only barely see the resemblance—Claude’s dad was so tall and broad-shouldered and black-bearded that Claude looked a little runty by comparison.

“Dad, I’d like you to meet Hilda Valentine Goneril,” Claude said, gesturing with a bit of a flourish. “She saved my neck more than a few times during the war in Fódlan.”

“Did she, now? Then you have my thanks, Lady Goneril!” the king shouted, pulling her into a bearish embrace (wow, oh wow, Almyrans must be more _touchy_ ; Hilda swallowed the impulse to yelp). “How do you like Almyra?”

“I only got here today,” Hilda said, stepping back and straightening out her dress, “but if everyone is friendly as you are, I’m sure I’ll love it here.”

Zamyan smiled hugely. Goddess, this would be easy. Men were so easy to impress.

She tilted her head just so, and simpered on about how fine and brave the Almyran warriors had been in Fódlan, and apparently she carried on so well that by the time some retainer finally demanded their share of king’s attention, Claude had disappeared from her side entirely.

She scanned the crowd and felt a prickling of unease. She’d been so _furious_ with Claude, and then she’d been so _determined_ to impress, and then she’d been chattering her head off to the king. And so she was only _just_ realizing that she was in Almyra. Like, deeply in Almyra. She knew her big brother had visited Nader a few times, since the war ended, and he had told her what fun it was here. But Hilda eyed the scenery dubiously—who was she even supposed to _talk_ to?

Then a flash of pale skin caught her eye, across the room, and Hilda brightened to see it. The queen, Claude’s mom, seemed presently unoccupied.

Hilda crossed the room and offered a little curtsey: “Queen Elena, it’s so nice to meet you. I hadn’t known an Almyran feast would be so elegant.”

The corner of Elena’s mouth quirked. “You must be the Goneril girl.”

“That’s me, yep. Did Claude tell you about me?”

“A little. As much as Claude tells anyone.”

Hilda laughed. “Sounds about right.”

Elena smiled back, thinly, and said nothing. Hilda fidgeted, glanced around for something to remark upon—but the kaleidoscope of colors and the swirl of the dancers on the far end of the room made her dizzy. She looked back to Elena, who seemed supremely comfortable with her silence. Her gaze flitted easily between the dancers and the skinny little Fódlan girl beside her. Hilda fidgeted again, feeling small, then blurted at last: “So how did you and the king meet?”

Elena smiled again (she smiled the same way Claude did, Hilda realized with a jolt, always a little bit fake). “Zamyan wasn’t a king when I met him, of course,” she said. “I didn’t even know he was a prince. He’d come to Riegan to negotiate a trade deal, on behalf of his nation, and when he heard there was an annual archery tournament being held at our manor that very week, he insisted on entering.”

“And he won?”

“No. I did.” Elena smiled wolfishly. “But he was a respectable second place.”

“Wow,” Hilda said, and laughed, and Queen Elena nodded, and silence fell again between them.

“So what happened next?” Hilda pressed. “Did he challenge you to a rematch the next year? Or maybe you traded letters back and forth? Ooh, or maybe he—”

“I left with him the next week.”

“Oh, wow.” Hilda watched to see if Elena was joking. She wasn’t. “So, you left just like that? You must’ve really loved him.”

“I do.”

Elena looked so serious, Hilda thought, nothing like Claude. She thought about the fumbling—thing—that she had with him, whatever it was, and compared it to the hawk-sharp light in Elena’s eyes; she thought of an old tale about how to tame a fox (carefully, slowly, only looking at it sideways); and she thought about those horrible jagged peaks they’d flown over to get here, and she shuddered.

“Wasn’t it scary?” Hilda said, after a moment. “I mean, leaving Fódlan behind for...” She lowered her voice. “I mean, this isn’t exactly Derdriu, you know?”

Elena smirked. “If I had harbored even a shred of doubt. I would not have lasted a week. But it’s been a great many weeks since then, hasn’t it?”

Well then. They stood together a while, watching the dancers, until Hilda lost her nerve and politely excused herself.

* * *

Hilda slept in the palace’s guest quarters, of course, to maintain their veneer of propriety. And Claude snuck into said quarters _just_ as she’d lain down to sleep, because Claude so loved to peel away such veneers.

“So, what did you think?” Claude asked, hopping onto the bed beside Hilda, with one elbow propped on a pillow.

“It was pretty fun,” Hilda said. Claude raised an eyebrow—even _she_ could hear the strained note in her own voice, gods, she was losing her touch. She mustered, “That banquet-hall was gorgeous. Your dad’s fun. I can see why my brother likes it here.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s, you know. Tough and strong and stuff.”

Claude rolled his eyes good-naturedly: “Says the former quartermaster of the united Fódlan army. You can put the delicate flower act behind you now, you know. The secret’s out.”

“That was _different_. I couldn’t let you go—” _run off without me._ Hilda cleared her throat, and started again. “I mean, I couldn’t just let Edelgard trample all over everything. And anyway, that’s all done and over with, now.”

“You made a pretty fierce warrior princess, is all I’m saying.”

“You must be thinking of your mom,” Hilda said, and shuddered a bit. “And she is _pretty_ intense, by the way. Is she always so... like that?”

“Afraid so. They call her the Lioness of Samandi, you know.”

“I can see why. Almyra suits her.”

Claude tilted his head. “And what about you?”

“What?”

“You’ve talked about your brother, and my mom—but how would Almyra suit _you?_ ”

Hilda laughed. “It’s like I said. It’s fun here but I am _so_ not the warrior princess type.”

“My mom isn’t the entirety of Almyra, you know,” Claude pressed. “There’s plenty of artisans here. We could go to one of the museums tomorrow, there’s these old mosaics that are incredible—”

“You don’t need to do that just for me. Almyran art isn’t really my thing, anyway.”

“Maybe the stuff that makes it back to _Fódlan_ isn’t your thing. You haven’t seen what we keep for ourselves.”

“Really, Claude, it’s fine—”

“I know a few of the curators, they could take us around—”

“I don’t know why you’re so focused on this, Claude. You _left_ , didn’t you?”

Something in Hilda’s voice made Claude wince. “Sorry, what?”

“I mean, you’ve been Fódlan a long time now, right?” She was wringing the corner of a blanket between her hands as she spoke. “And all the stories you told me about growing up here, I mean—foiling assassins? getting into fights? the thing with your parents and the horse? It all sounded so _dangerous_. It sounded like you got out the first chance you had, I mean, you don’t _act_ Almyran, you know? So why’s it matter whether I like some old mosaic or not?”

She was confused, Claude thought, with a strange feeling like nausea. He’d been telling all those little tales for fun, hinting here and there, to see if she could guess, when she would guess—but hadn’t he also spoken of the brightness of his city’s sunsets, the sweetness of its wine, the soothing sound of wyvern-wings flapping overhead each evening as they flew back to roost?

And “you don’t act Almyran”—what did that even mean?

Claude smiled, because he always did. He smiled and said, “Okay, no art museum. Tomorrow would’ve been a weird day to go, anyway—the Carsamba Suri starts in the evening, and you wouldn’t want to miss that.”

“The Carsamba what?”

“Carsamba Suri. It’s probably Almyra’s biggest festival.”

“Ooh, what kind of festival?”

Hilda’s voice was all syrup-sweetness again. Claude made her guess a few times, and then she _ooh_ ed and _ahh_ ed as if on cue, as he told her about the fire-spinners and the skydancers and the hundred bright bonfires that would ring the city. And she asked for another of his father’s stories, and he told it to her as she fell asleep, snuggled close to him while he stroked her hair—and it felt almost, almost right.

But staring around the room, at the glittering Almyran artifacts in each corner, and at Hilda sleeping among them, he felt a little chill he couldn’t shake, like water soaking his clothes, and shuddered.

* * *

Some days, Claude and Kurosh just didn’t click. He’d climb onto his wyvern for a quick morning flight, and in midair, Kurosh would twitch strangely, or nip at his boots. Every wingbeat would be subtly _off_ , and Claude couldn’t find the rhythm to post. And unless Claude had someplace urgent to be, he’d just fly back to the ground, because the alternative was a herky-jerky exhaustion through the sky that would only make them both miserable.

Those off days only stood out because they were so rare. Most days, flying was a glorious, effortless thing: Claude only needed to _think_ of where he wanted to go, and Kurosh would turn that way, flying as one.

Most days with Hilda were like that.

But today?

Today was _off_.

It was nothing big, nothing obvious. Just a rhythm that wouldn’t match. He took Hilda to the grand bazaar during the day, and thought she’d love that—all the bright-painted enamelware, the jeweled bracelets, and even the cute old man who’d been selling his elegant little sets of teaware since Claude was a boy. But Hilda seemed so stiff; she managed to stand very slightly apart from everyone, even in a place as crowded as this. And while she _ooh_ ed appreciatively over some of the finer wares, none of them really lit that familiar spark in her eye. And when they went to grab a bite from one of the stalls, Hilda tugged Claude’s arm: “Is _everything_ here made of lentils?”

Breakfast had been adasi. _Why didn’t you say something earlier?_ he thought. But he said, “Sure, let’s find something else,” easy, and she liked the kabobs they found just fine, so no big deal, but—it was just _off_.

When night fell, he took her onto Kurosh, so they could watch from the sky as the bonfires began to flicker ablaze, in a glittering ring all around the city—that, at least, seemed to light the usual glow in her eyes. As the last one roared to life, she laughed and clapped her hands and said “Claude, it’s _so_ nice,” and she sounded like she meant it.

But once they chose a bonfire to fly toward, and settled back on the ground, Hilda’s posture went small again, watching the crowd from afar: “What kind of dancing is _that_?”

“The Almyran kind,” Claude said with a grin. “It’s fun. A lot better than that three-step stuff they had us doing at the academy. Want to try?”

“I’ll watch.”

Claude shrugged, and stepped into the crowd—the fun thing about a crowd like this, was that no one could tell a prince apart from any common pauper, and no one cared. It was all just a thrash of bodies, leaping, drums drumming and flames roaring. Claude found the beat swiftly, and yelled and clapped along. A few times, he looked outward to catch Hilda’s eyes, and tilted his head, _Come on in._ Each time she smiled thinly, and shook her head, _no_.

After a few vain attempts, Claude finally slipped out of the crowd, grabbed two goblets of wine, and slid next to Hilda to offer a drink.

She took a sip, gingerly. Claude emptied his glass at once; there was a lot of celebrating to be had yet. They stood together for a moment, but the _off_ thing was still there, somehow. “How’s the wine?” Claude asked.

“It’s good,” Hilda said, noncommittally.

Then a scrawny kid slunk out of the crowd of dancers—kid was probably the same age they’d been when they were at Garreg Mach, a strangely wistful thing to think about. Claude raised an eyebrow when he bowed at Hilda, but smiled at what came next:

“You are pretty,” he said, in thickly accented Fódlanese. “Would you like to dance?”

Claude tilted his head to watch. He’d always liked seeing the way Hilda had with other guys, the effortless charm, how she drew them in—

But Hilda flinched away from the offered hand, said something Claude couldn’t make out— _no_ or maybe _ugh_ —and the kid, crestfallen, slid back into the crowd like a beaten dog.

Claude scowled, and he moved before he thought. He swept close, grabbed Hilda’s hand, and pulled her aside.

“Ow,” she said; he must’ve gripped tighter than he meant to.

He loosened his hold, and she jerked her hand away, glaring at him—and he met that glare head-on as he whispered, “You’re being a bit of a brat, aren’t you?”

Hilda’s eyebrows shot up. “Ex _cuse_ me?”

Claude said nothing. She’d heard him.

“So you _want_ me dancing with other guys?” she asked, rolling her eyes.

“Hilda. You’re not stupid. Don’t act like you’re stupid.”

“I didn’t want to _dance_ , Claude, what’s the big deal?”

“You don’t want to do much of _anything_ , ever since we crossed the Locket.”

Hilda huffed and put her hands on her hips. “You never told me your dad’s a king.”

“This _is_ me telling you.” Claude gestured broadly—at the festival, the sky lit up with lanterns, the fire-pits roaring in the distance, tonbaks drumming and hands clapping, all of it. “Look, if that was too much of a surprise, I’m sorry, but—something tells me that’s not _really_ what you’re fussed about, is it?”

Hilda scowled. “This place smells and it’s weird and I can’t even _talk_ to anybody.”

“That guy was talking to you in perfectly decent Fódlanese.”

“I just thought we were going someplace _normal_. The beach or a resort town or something. Not this.”

_Normal._

Claude thought about a great many things, all at the same time:

He thought about the bracelet, the bright-jeweled one that had been his grandmother’s treasure, the one Hilda wasn’t wearing right now. He thought about that miserable-looking servant in Goneril, and who knew how many more. He thought about his mother’s warning, the _something you can’t forsee_. More like _didn’t_ forsee, more like _wouldn’t_. He thought about the way Hilda curled her lips up at the food here, the way she flinched at that man’s simple offer to dance, the way she’d very carefully held herself apart this whole while, stiff-backed and proud, and how very different she was from her boisterous big-hearted brother.

Claude wasn’t used to misreading things. But, then, he wasn’t used to _this_ , either, the thing between them, and that was half the problem, wasn’t it?

Claude gave a simple nod: _fine_. He decided he was fine. And then he felt fine.

“Kurosh’s eyes aren’t very good at night, but I’ll take you back in the morning,” Claude said, as he turned to walk away.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve got some friends I want to see.”

Hilda stamped her foot. “So you’re just leaving me here?”

“You know the way back to the guest quarters.”

“You can’t just leave me _alone_ with all these—”

“All these _what_?” Claude said, turning to look at Hilda for just a moment—and he didn’t sound angry, not at all, just tired. Hilda opened her mouth and closed it again without saying anything. Claude laughed once, and turned away again. “Good night, Hilda.”

Hilda tried calling out, but just then one of the fire-pits roared tremendously, spitting embers into the sky, and the crowd around her roared in answer, raising their hands and shouting and screaming—and by the time Hilda managed to push her way through and back onto the path, Claude had disappeared wholly into the Almyran crowd.


	3. Chapter 3

When Lorenz heard the news about what Claude had done to poor Hilda, he was scandalized, of course. To think that Claude had done so much good during the war—only for him to steal a noble daughter of Goneril away, drag her to the isle of Morfis, ensorcell her using the dark magics there, and abandon her in the cruelest possible way—

Well, it wasn’t _news_ he’d heard, exactly, more like rumors. But very _credible_ rumors. Lorenz’s man in Goneril wrote to say that Hilda hadn’t left her quarters in a fortnight, and his heart broke thinking of the lady, alone in her grief.

So Lorenz committed the most ferocious act of protest he could imagine: he penned a sternly-worded letter.

The result was a masterwork that must’ve been inspired by the Goddess herself. Lorenz’s every stroke was ferocious, every barb poised to maim. The work took the better part of a day. Lorenz took no lunch, only tea, so as not to disturb his focus.

It was well-known that Claude was an irregular correspondent at best, but wouldn’t it be satisfying if the Duke actually _did_ bother to read it? how Lorenz imagined Claude paling in horror and shame at the enumeration of his crimes, how Claude would rue his knavery—

—no, Lorenz didn’t _actually_ expect Claude to read the blasted thing. It just felt good to write it.

And so he _certainly_ didn’t expect two tons of lizard to fall out of the sky next morning, bearing the famous absentee leader himself, just before daybreak.

Only two groundskeepers were working at that hour. One of them fainted, and the other rushed to fetch Lorenz straightaway. But the damage was already done: by the time Lorenz had roused himself and rushed outside, Claude's ugly beast had trampled all over the hydrangeas, and Claude himself was lying in a bed of Varley ryegrass as though that _hadn't_ cost a small fortune to import all the way into Gloucester.

"D-Duke von Riegan," Lorenz stammered, straining to remember whether he'd closed that letter with _you absolute cad_ or _you churlish knave_. “What a surprise."

"Is it?" Claude asked, tossing a rolled-up parchment toward Lorenz. Lorenz caught it without bothering to look at it; he knew the letter was his own. "I’ve got to say, Lorenz, you've really got a way with words."

“Well. I.” Lorenz eyed Claude carefully. He had no intention of rescinding his diatribe, of course, but he wasn’t keen on _reiterating_ its points verbally, particularly with Claude’s ten-foot-tall wyvern curled protectively nearby.

"Cat's got your tongue, huh? A shame. I was kind of looking forward to getting chewed out." Claude shrugged, standing up and stretching hugely. "Hey, have you got any breakfast? I’m starving.”

The groundskeeper, who plainly had been desperate for any excuse to leave, perked up: “Yes, my duke. Right away, sirs. Follow me, sirs.”

Which was how, instead of giving Claude a _proper_ piece of his mind, Lorenz wound up sharing tea with him under a gazebo.

Well, with Claude and his wyvern; the young Duke insisted on bringing his little pet along. Decorum hindered Lorenz’s ability to object. But, Goddess above, the creature hadn’t taken her eyes off him since they’d arrived, and she kept _snarling_ whenever Lorenz reached a hand out for his tea. “Claude, wouldn’t your wyvern be more comfortable in the fields? or in the paddocks with the other wyverns?”

"Oh, don’t mind her, she’s just gotten a little broody lately," Claude said, in the same breezy way one might say _oh apologies this room is a little drafty_. Lorenz stared down the wyvern's three-foot long snout and was not remotely reassured.

A servant rushed out with the crumpets at last. Small mercy.

“So based on your letter,” Claude said, shoving an entire pastry into his mouth—really, his _table manners_ —“it seems like you heard about what I was up to last month. And if I’m going to be a—what was your phrasing, a rakish jackanape?” (Claude paused to swallow the last chunk of pastry in his mouth.) “Well, I want it to be for the right reasons, you know?”

“Do you deny the allegations against you?”

“Alle-what?” Claude laughed and scratched his head. “This isn’t a court, Lorenz. I’m just clearing a few things up. For starters, I’ve never even _been_ to Morfis, so how would I take Hilda there—”

“You took her _somewhere_ —”

“And it’s not like I _stole_ her, we’ve been—I mean we’ve gone off on little adventures here and there plenty of times before. This was just another one of those.”

Lorenz hadn’t expected _that_. He cleared his throat. “Adventures?”

Claude gave Lorenz a look: _do you really need that one spelled out?_

And, oh. Oh my. His head swelled with questions—how long had these little dalliances been going on, who knew, had there ever been any _intention_ of doing this honorably or were they both proper fools, what were they _thinking_? But regardless of _how far it went_ or _how long it went_ , that wasn’t the issue—

“I have not heard of the other ventures, Claude. I have heard of _this_ one. So something changed.” He slapped a hand on the table: “You hurt Hilda.”

A complicated expression passed over Claude’s face. “Let me start from the beginning.”

Lorenz wondered at that expression. Watched Claude for a long moment. Then reached for his tea and began to drink.

“So my name’s Claude von Riegan, but my other name is Kamyar el-Samandi, son of King Zayan—which makes me the prince of Almyra.”

Lorenz spat out his tea.

Claude expected that, of course. He even had a napkin ready to clean up the tea. Lorenz was a nice guy, Claude liked him, but he wasn’t really the discerning type.

A half hour later, after Claude had finished explaining his lineage to Lorenz (with enough detail to convince Lorenz that no, this wasn’t some kind of prank, and yes, Claude was serious), Lorenz went silent. Eerie-silent. Claude had been an archer long enough to know the breathless silence right before a sniper’s strike, and felt the hair prickle on his neck.

“So you’re a duke,” Lorenz said at last, voice low, “ _and_ a prince, and you’ve come here, to—what? Have a good laugh at all of us? Gloat about how you swept in and stole our free nation and played us all? Don’t _tell_ me you’re thinking of ruling both nations at once, House Gloucester will not—"

Oh, gods. This was getting sidetracked.

“No, of course not, it’s not _like_ that, I didn’t—c’mon, Lorenz, you were there the whole war, I wasn’t trying to _steal_ anything, just—” Claude faltered. This didn’t seem like an opportune moment for his whole _actually I want to unite all the countries in the world_ spiel. “Listen. I came here because I wanted to see where my mother was from, and what it’s like here. Anyone would wonder that, wouldn’t they?”

The corner of Lorenz’s mouth twitched unpleasantly.

“I _can’t_ be first foreign exchange student Garreg Mach’s ever had,” he joked.

Lorenz didn’t laugh.

Claude sighed and pressed on: “And when I came over here, I had _no idea_ Edelgard was going to do what she did. I had _no idea_ my grandfather was going to pass away so soon after that happened. And by that point, Lorenz, the Alliance was in a bad state. You _know_ it was. If I had up and bolted then, it would’ve collapsed, right?” Claude waited. “Yes or no, Lorenz.”

“Yes.”

“Yes,” Claude repeated. “So I had a duty. So I fulfilled that duty. That’s all.”

Lorenz’s hand on his teacup was so tight that Claude thought it was going to snap in half. But instead, Lorenz set the cup down and offered a begrudging nod. Duty, that was a thing Lorenz understood.

“And anyway,” Claude continued, more gently now, “I only brought it up because it’s hard to explain the rest, unless you know all that. It’s not the _point_ —”

“It most certainly is not,” Lorenz said, rallying, straightening his back. “Regardless of your—lineage, I cannot abide by any mistreatment of a lady, especially so dear a friend as Hilda.”

“I didn’t—look, let me just finish,” Claude said, and told the whole rest of it. The trip to Samandi, meeting his parents, the festival, the dozen small ways she’d shown she couldn’t do this, couldn’t be in Almyra, and their icy-silent trip home together.

"I don't know what you expected," Lorenz said, when Claude had finished.

“You still don’t hold back, huh.” Claude smiled crookedly. “You’re right, of course. But at least there wasn’t any dark magic involved, right?”

“I can concede that, “ Lorenz agreed, taking a long sip of his tea. “Why tell me all this, Claude?”

Claude shrugged. “I had the morning off. I was in the neighborhood. And,” he said, looking Lorenz in the eyes, "I didn't want you to have the wrong idea about me."

"Haven't you deliberately _cultivated_ precisely that? For a great many years?"

"Okay okay, sure, sure, the prince stuff, whatever. What I meant was, I didn't want you to have the wrong idea about something that mattered."

Not for the first time, Lorenz marveled at Claude’s strange logic. He spoke of princehood as if it were some trifle, a weightless little trinket you could cast aside for a bit of extra room in your pockets, and yet the thing that _did_ matter was—

"Hilda," Lorenz said, and Claude offered a helpless smile, raking his fingers through his hair.

So he _did_ care, Lorenz thought—more’s the pity. Claude leaned back and stretched out his legs and looked off to the side.

"Claude," Lorenz started, with all the delicacy he could muster, "I can't claim to know how Almyra governs its affairs. But if you truly _are_ a prince, then I imagine your relations are bound up in your princely duties, correct?”

Claude neither nodded nor shook his head, simply stared.

“Lady Hilda Goneril is a fine woman. You are a fine gentleman. But there are many fine people. Surely, if you’re inviting someone to your throne, it ought to be an Almyran?”

"Right, I get it," Claude said, pushing himself away from the table and standing up. He didn't seem angry, just _done_ , in a way that made Lorenz shudder.

“Claude, I truly don’t mean to be callous—”

But Claude had already bounded up his wyvern’s side, and he was already in the saddle and shouting _hyah_ , and Lorenz’s voice was obliterated by a flurry of wingflaps. Just a half-minute later, the only sign Claude had been here at all was the scattering of crumbs on his side of the table.

That was probably why he’d insisted on keeping the wyvern nearby, Lorenz thought dully. Ensured himself a quick getaway.

* * *

Some part of Hilda knew. Some part of her had known it for a long time. But she knew it the way she knew her friend Breana had harbored a crush on a married knight for the past five years, or the way she knew the Goddess wasn’t real—the kind of knowing where the best thing to do is to _keep_ yourself from knowing it. No one would ever learn Breana’s secret from Hilda. No one would ever accuse Hilda of blasphemy.

And she had thought that was what Claude had _wanted_. He had told her just barely enough, he had let her put the pieces together—and then he acted like any other Fódlan noble, so she treated him like any other Fódlan noble, and forbade herself to think of him as anything else.

_Wasn’t that what you wanted?_

Which was why she hated the stupid bangle. Because it made this secret, this stupid secret, impossible to ignore. She should’ve chucked it in his face, like she’d wanted to, when she first got it. She should’ve said something when they started flying east, over the Locket, and she knew for-sure for-sure where they were going.

But she hadn’t. So instead she’d tried explaining it every way she knew how, in a bunch of letters that went unanswered. Instead she locked herself in her room and had the mightiest sulk of her life. Instead she plucked a dusty old grammar from a bookshelf and passed the time by turning over the joys of noun declensions in her mind. She practiced the sentences aloud, every word, every strange syllable, until she was too tired to hold her eyes open.

 _You can’t ignore me forever,_ she wrote once, but she didn’t send that one. She knew it wasn’t true.

* * *

Lorenz had thought it only right to send Hilda a letter, of course. Lady Goneril had not left her quarters for so long; surely she would be encouraged by any friendly word.

 _I was sorry to learn of the misunderstanding between you and Claude,_ Lorenz wrote, after agonizing over the proper euphemism for the better part of an hour. _You may wish to know that he visited Gloucester recently, and we spoke of you briefly. You have my full support in the matter, and I regret that he put you in so uncomfortable a situation._

Another wyvern dropped onto Lorenz’s grounds only a few days later, naturally. Again, a poor groundskeeper fainted at the sight. The other groundskeeper rushed to fetch Lorenz—but Hilda rushed faster, storming the front of the estate and throwing the doors open.

Lorenz just been putting his boots on for a morning stroll. The sight of Hilda Goneril in the flesh—hair ragged, eyes wild, and sweat-soaked—was nearly enough to cause _Lorenz_ to faint, too. But he managed to steady himself on a nearby banister as she strode toward him: “Where’s Claude?”

“Beg pardon?” Lorenz said. Then, eying the scaled beast that was hovering just behind her in the doorway: “Hilda, when did you learn to fly—”

“Your letter. Claude was here, wasn’t he? Where is he?”

“He’s not here _now_. He only stayed for an hour, Hilda, a week ago. But it’s lovely to see you, as always, might I offer some tea—”

“Of course he’s gone,” Hilda said, with a frustrated sigh. “Listen, if you see that jerk again, tell him to answer, oh, _any_ of my letters?”

“You—sent him letters? Pardon, I’d gotten the impression you two weren’t speaking—”

“I sent him like a _dozen_. I mean, I thought maybe he’d just dropped off the earth for a while, he does that sometimes, his whole _thing_ is being hard to pin down, but if he’s visiting _you_ he must’ve gotten like at least _one_ letter.”

“Oh. Well.” Lorenz frowned. “I’ll send word if he comes by again?”

“That would be swell. Thanks, Lorenz.”

The _swell_ was in her syrupy-sweet voice, her normal voice—which made Lorenz realize with a jolt how unlike her all the rest of this was, brusquely storming in and demanding answers. It reminded him of the first time he’d _really_ seen her fight, on the battlefield; how he shuddered for her doomed opponents then! And it made him shudder again now, though he knew not for whom—Claude? himself? the Goddess herself?

“My pleasure,” Lorenz called, but Hilda didn’t hear it—she had already launched herself aloft once more.

* * *

_Lady Hilda visited my estate earlier today,_ Lorenz wrote that night. _She asked after you. Apparently she has sent you a dozen letters, and she seemed most urgent to resume your correspondence._

Claude’s reply: _A dozen letters all saying the same thing. Tell her to change it up._

Lorenz scowled, and he considered shooting back a curt _Tell her yourself._ But, well, that just meant she would never hear it at all, wouldn’t it? So instead, sighing, Lorenz dressed the sentiment up in a bit of tact, and forwarded it along:

_Lady Hilda, the Duke von Riegan wrote me acknowledging receipt of your letters. Might you consider a new course of entreaty? I have reason to suspect that he finds your present words oversimilar and unconvincing._

No reply—for a few weeks. Then, a terse note scribbled in a sloppy hand: _I’ve tried everything short of smoke signals. Know a good spot for a fire?_

Lorenz lifted his hand and tore a chunk of hair out. Well—a very small chunk, it turned out tearing hair out was harder than he’d thought, and not at all satisfying, he’d only surmised that it may offer some relief.

So he allowed himself a heavy sigh, and instead penned the following:

_There is something important that I must speak with you about, privately. It concerns the topic we have been corresponding over most recently. If you’ll meet me in the pavilion at the north edge of the Gloucester vineyards, at noon on the fourteenth day of Garland, then you will find my envoy there, and I beg you speak to them._

He writ two copies, and sent them both off with a knowing grin.

* * *

Noon on the fourteenth day of Garland was fair. Clear skies, bright sun, only a few workers in the fields.

Claude arrived early, of course. He needed time to scout the place, to scope out any exits he might need, and to make sure nothing seemed amiss, before sitting down to wait. Claude trusted Lorenz, of course, but—just in case.

The thing Claude _didn’t_ anticipate was who the envoy would be, gliding in ten minutes late on a rather beastly-looking grey-backed wyvern:

“Hilda!” Inwardly, he winced at how surprised he sounded, and brought his voice low as Hilda clambered off the wyvern and into the pavilion: “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I got a letter from Lorenz.”

“I did too.”

Claude slipped the letter from his pocket, and read aloud: “You will find my envoy there, and I beg you speak to... oh. Wow.”

“He _set us up?_ ”

Hilda looked ready to punch something. Claude only laughed: “Can you blame him? We’ve been a little... you know. Guess I owe him an apology. Whelp.” Claude rose, stretched his arms hugely, and started walking toward his wyvern. “Later.”

Hilda’s chest swelled with panic: “Wait. Wait, Claude, I miss you.”

Claude bit his tongue on what he wanted to say: _I miss you too._ Because, true as that was: 

“That’s not enough.”

Claude started walking again. Kurosh tilted his head and twitched his tail, ready for takeoff.

“Wait,” Hilda repeated, rushing over and grabbing Claude’s sleeve: “I _know_ I was being a brat, okay? And your family—or your people, or whatever—they seemed really nice. And I should’ve like, talked to them, and not been so judge-y, and I’m sorry I ruined the trip.”

Claude shrugged her hand away. “It’s not just the trip. Hilda, do you know why I brought you there in the first place?”

“To mess with me?”

Claude chuckled. “A little bit. Why else?”

“You wanted me to meet your parents.”

“And?”

Hilda squirmed. “You know I can’t say it. It’ll sound vain if I say it first.”

Claude stared at her.

Hilda scowled back: “I’m _serious_ , Claude.”

The problem with Hilda and Claude, the problem with them _together_ , was that neither of them were very good at being stubborn. Hilda wrapped the wills of others around her fingers; Claude had his deft dodges and little feints; neither really did the whole stand-your-ground thing. So when they couldn’t just delegate? or they couldn’t just dodge? Then all they could do was _stare_ at each other like this, Claude guessed, and that was almost too much. He wanted to flinch, he wanted to dodge, and _that_ was the problem.

So he broke the standstill. “That bangle I gave you? It was my grandmother’s.”

Hilda glanced at her wrist. Then stared at it. Then some realization dawned, and Hilda’s voice jumped two octaves: “Claude, you can’t be—this isn’t—we can’t _already_ be engaged?”

“Relax. More like engaged to be engaged.”

It was the secret that couldn’t be spoken. The thing she’d forced herself not to know. Hilda breathed deep and asked what she already knew: “You’re going back to Almyra, aren’t you? I mean—you’re going to go and not come back.”

“And if I am?”

“It’s kind of a lot to ask a girl, you know?” Goddess, she was crying now. Real tears, not the fake ones. “Especially without actually _asking_ her?”

“Hilda, do you want to come?”

“Claude, I... it’s just so _different_ , and—”

“Right, I understand,” Claude said, steeling himself, and turned to leave—

“Claude, _lutfan. Ana in-tanta._ ”

_Please. I’m not finished._

It was the only language that could’ve stopped Claude in that moment. He turned and marveled: this was the lady who wouldn’t condescend to order fesenjan two months ago.

 _“Mund mata want taerif Almyria?”_ he tested.

Hilda screwed up her face in concentration. _“Shar itna. Dahabna in-Almyra ila-Fódlan. Thuma latelam. Talimat? Ana latelam?”_

_“Laghat Almyria jayidatan.”_

_“Sukran.”_ And she did look quite thankful, didn’t she?

Claude stepped a little closer, pressed a little further: _“Min almak fu?”_

_“Alsaby. Fi manzili.”_

Claude lowered his voice and started reciting something very fast: _“Al’ard tughadhi al’ashjar watathumur al’ashjar, inaha al’ard—”_

“ _Ma befham_ , Claude, jeez.”

He smiled. “I thought you hated studying.”

“There’s some things I hate more.”

They were staring at each other again. But now Claude didn’t feel like flinching. Hilda’s face trembled with a hundred different things—hope, fear, determination, want—but at least she didn’t look like the woman who’d turned down the kid at the dance a few weeks before.

It might work.

“I’ll be in Fódlan for another year or so,” Claude said at length. “I need to get the Alliance wrapped up in a tidy bow before I hand it over to Lorenz. So that’s a year you’ve got to work on that accent.”

“So...?”

“So we’ll see.”

Hilda’s face fell. That answer hurt. Of course it hurt. But it was the only one he had to give: “Hilda, I meant it, when I gave you that bracelet. But Almyra and I are kind of a package deal. Almyra _ns_ and I. The last thing my people need is a snooty Fódlan noble thinking they’re better than all of them, you know?”

“I’m not—” Hilda started, and swallowed. “I mean, I won’t be.”

“You’ve got some time. Show me.”

“Okay,” she said, and the set of her shoulders reminded him of the last time he’d seen her on the battlefield. He couldn’t help but smile.

He tried to leave, then. Turned and started walking toward Kurosh again. But, damn, there was just one last thing he needed her to know:

“Hilda?”

“Yeah.”

She hadn’t moved an inch. He walked back toward her, and took her hand in his. She looked up at him questioningly. He ran his fingers over hers, then locked them together—Hilda smelled so nice, when he stood this close. And when he kissed her, it was only a small kiss, a furtive, tentative thing—but it felt right, like drops of water coming together, like planets pulling together.

“I missed you too,” he breathed. “I’ll see you again soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some making-of notes [at my Dreamwidth](https://queenlua.dreamwidth.org/275497.html), for any curious souls out there.
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


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